


Ostello

by casstayinmyass



Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Blood Loss, Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Body Horror, Disturbing Themes, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Horror, Pain, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:49:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27197405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casstayinmyass/pseuds/casstayinmyass
Summary: There's a place where those who wonder may pay a price for their curiosities. The eldest of three brothers has a fascination with the macabre.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15
Collections: Scary Stories To Tell In The Abbey





	Ostello

**Author's Note:**

> Two days into our feature anthology, and I am already shaking and shivering! Did I say that out loud?
> 
> Welcome children of Ghost, to our second day of scary stories. Today is a gorefest of terrifying proportion... featuring our dear eldest Emeritus brother, Papa I. Funny, he seemed so kind and gentle the other day when he asked me to hand him some gardening shears. Now I know what he might have been using them for! 
> 
> If you need me, I'll be hanging over the vomit bucket. Keep one close, just in case, and have a bloody good time listening to our newest tale. Huahaha!!
> 
> Warning: Extreme gore, blood, torture, tooth-related torture, skin, and description of pain and corpses. Please do not read if you are sensitive to these.

Primo Emeritus was a quiet man. The kind of man people respected; dependable, logical, and kind hearted when need be. He loved his family, loved to garden, and loved to sit and enjoy nature. But every man like that has a secret—a side that hungers for darker knowledge, a side nobody finds out about unless they’re caught. John Wayne Gacy. Ted Bundy. All of them seemed normal, like Primo. Primo was a curious man. He liked to read about things, but was a practical learner. He had read every book on the subject of his interest, but knew he had to take the knife in his own hands if he were to indulge in his deepest curiosity of all: blood.

Watching blood gather beneath someone as their life force left their eyes. Leaving them a vacant shell, nothing but a carcass forsaken to rot and return to the same soil he buried his flowers in. The crimson ooze of a liquid thicker than water, astonishing in colour. He was obsessed with it—and this was his opportunity to indulge in his darkest desire.

Sitting down on the fold out chair in the dingy rented room he had paid handsomely for, Primo regarded the woman hanging upside down before him with her arms tied. The room itself looked like something straight out of a horror movie. It was grimy, walls stained with dried blood. A broken clock and a crucifix hung on the wall. Primo stared at it, noting how out of place it was. The woman’s scream interrupted his pondering. He had been given the option to gag her, but he wanted to hear her screams. It was all part of the experience; authentic.

"Little bird, little bird," Primo cooed, standing up. "Do you know why you hang upside down with your wings tucked like so?" The woman thrashed, eyes wide. "It is because the blood rushes down to our head when we are...” He turned the cross on the wall, “Inverted. If I was to slit your throat when you were hanging your traditional upward stance, it would be... unremarkable." He sat back down in the chair, bones protesting as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "A lady in the 1500s used this method to collect blood. Elizabeth Bathory. Have you heard of her, little bird?" The woman slowly tried to nod her head, shaking more violently now. "Ah, well taught. A lady of culture. Stupendo." The old Italian nodded his head. "I myself have read many books on her. Fascinating. She bathed in the blood of the young in the hope of restoring her youth, you know." He raised an eyebrow. "That hits close to home.” He patted his cheek, gnarled fingers making a slapping noise. “Many look at me and recoil from my visage. They say I look like I am melting. My own family ridicules me for it, though I do not mind. All in good fun. Shall I surprise them? Shall I bathe in your lovely young fluids and revitalize these wrinkles?"

She stared back into his pale, sunken face, and from her terror she couldn't fathom an answer. Primo only chuckled deeply. "I am only teasing, little bird." He patted her neck, standing up. "Only teasing. You see, that is not how aging works. There is magic that can reverse the process, but why try? It's a battle against nature." He swept his cold, elderly fingers up over her body, between her hanging breasts and up to her navel. “And one day, I will return to the dust as we all must.” He stopped, pulling away from the supple mounds of flesh on her chest. "You have such a pretty, youthful form. I cannot touch what I wish too, for I am bound by my religion's laws of consent. My own personal morality as well... I respect you, little bird. I would not dream of such violation. You should be proud of the body you have been gifted with." She whimpered. "It is a shame they found me such a pretty one. Then again, age comes for us all. And death comes for us all. Isn't that right? Hm?"

"Not... this early," she sobbed.

"Shhh. It is alright, don't cry.” He wiped a tear away as she jerked. “You're a part of something bigger. The experience I gain from using the blade on you, it's astronomical. Such boundless knowledge... I thirst for it." His down turned lips quivered as he pulled his fists toward his chest and shook them in reverie. "I hope you know what purpose you are serving as I make my first cut."

"You don't have to do this."

"Shhh."

"I won't tell anyone if you let me go!"

"Shh shh, shh. I want you to keep your dignity, hm? You are a proud woman, a goddess. Goddesses do not beg. Isn't that right, little bird?" She choked out a sob in response.

Primo took that as a yes, and caressed her thigh with lips dry as paper as he made his first incision. He dragged the tip of the blade from her kneecap down her thigh, puncturing halfway to her pelvis. She screamed, an ear splitting sound this time, and Primo watched in fascination as the blood ran down her thigh, past her hips to her stomach, first in drops, then in rivulets as the knife punctured deeper into her yielding flesh.

"Forgive me." He sighed, removing the blade from inside her tender skin. "I got carried away— we don't want you to leave me too soon." The lights of the dingy room flickered. For a horrifying moment, the victim couldn’t see the man—he could have been anywhere, and her mind slowly filled with delirium. A breeze brushed against her skin, and it felt like his hands. Where was he? When the light came back on, he was standing in front of her, smiling that awful smile, drooping skin collecting around his lips as they turned up in appreciation. He looked like a ghost. 

Primo dug the knife into a new spot on her other thigh, and dragged it all the way down, slicing her flesh open and watching as even more blood poured out. “This will hurt, dolce mia,” he hissed. Without a soft moment of reprieve this time and with stone cold, emotionless eyes, Primo hacked away at her leg, cutting and slicing until bits of skin were hanging off down to her stomach and her chest was covered in streaks of oozing red. A pool collected below her hanging head, and Primo studied the reflection of the top of her head in it.

"I think we try something different, hm?" he whispers. Like a spectre, he swept around behind her. The woman's eyes widened in fear as she tried to jerk around with what little energy she had left to see what he was doing. Primo decided he didn’t want to cut anything back there; he sat back on his chair.

"Ah. I know," he said, realizing what he could do for the bloodiest results. "I'm afraid this will hurt, little bird. Please don't cry— this will get things flowing, you see?"

The first rip of the front tooth's root was worth every cent Primo paid for this room and his victim. Her horrified scream when he attached the pliers to it had been promptly cut off by her shocked gasp at the excruciating pain of having her tooth pulled. Primo didn't draw it out. He continued to remove them, until her top row were gone. Bloody gums with holes were left, some roots dangling as she spat and drooled blood. It only added to the red puddle beneath her, and Primo stared, transfixed as if he was studying a bug that had just been injected with an experimental serum, watching as blood left the wounds with ease now.

She was beginning to lose too much— Primo knew he wouldn't get to play much longer. He stroked her face with his withered thumb.

"To you, in your state I must look like a ghost," he chuckles. "Skin drooping and bags under my eyes. Perhaps I should try what Elizabeth Bathory did after all, hm? What do you think about that, little bird?" She tried to protest, but it only came out in a sputtered sob. Primo stood up, swiping a finger through one particularly gory cut. "Bathe in this, should I? See if I can get any younger? My brothers as I said, they tease me for all my wrinkles. Say I am out in the garden too long in the sun, that it doesn't do me any favors." Primo laced his fingers behind his back, walking around the hanging woman pensively. He crouched down in front of her. "Maybe so. But I have found my solution, I think." In one fast swipe, he brought the knife across her throat. The deluge was unimaginable—Primo found himself sprayed in the face, blood splattering all over her clothes and his. He opened his mouth, and let it drip down him in its gorgeous crimson rainfall. When she had finished the glorious dripping, he dragged his fingers through the puddle, dragging them in streaks down his face. With a small smile, he used the knife to snip free the arms on her swinging, lifeless body.

"Thank you, little bird. Such beauty in the dead."

Later that day, Primo was working in his garden and thinking about his eventful morning in that old warehouse where he had participated in the private business exchange. It had cost him a pretty penny certainly, but it had satiated his hunger. He had learned what he wanted to from first hand experience, and he never had to venture again to do such a thing. He patted the roots of his petunias, and tilted up his sunhat a little. A sparrow landed on his forearm, and he chuckled. “Hello, little bird.”

"Primo, fratello!" he heard. The elderly man rotated with a cracking of his hips, to see Terzo driving his purple Corvette with Secondo, pulling into his driveway.

"Ah. Come for a visit?" Primo smiles, standing up gradually.

"Inviting ourselves, as usual," Terzo grinned, giving his frail older brother a hug. “I hope you do not mind.” He recoiled slightly. "You smell of... iron, brother."

"A side effect of the herb I am planting," he explained away smoothly. Secondo was staring at his shoe however, where Primo had neglected a couple of specks of blood. A card stuck out of the eldest’s back pocket, with directions to the warehouse. As Terzo headed inside and the middle brother pulled Primo in for an embrace, he leaned in to his ear.

"Lovely place, isn't it? Torture for a price. We must visit together sometime."

**Author's Note:**

> We hope you enjoyed this story... it's been a slice! Join us tomorrow for another spooky story that takes place in a much cleaner setting. Or so we hope!


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